


Skeletons

by days4daisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Exes, Jealous Castiel, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 14:04:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5293970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You look good,” Crowley mumbles, as an afterthought. Castiel does. Infuriatingly good.</p><p>Castiel smiles, and the pain returns to Crowley’s chest. “You do too, Crowley,” he says. “You…seem happy.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skeletons

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Tumblr Alternate Universe prompt: Crowstiel + "exes meeting again after not speaking for years"
> 
> *_*

Crowley recognizes him immediately. He’s at the back of the group, sporting a black hoodie that he’s owned for years. It’s faded now, softer-looking than Crowley remembers.

He looks a bit older, wrinkles beside his eyes. But the years have been kind of him overall. Hair still dark and thick; body, lean.

Crowley allows himself a chuckle at this turn of events. This week has already been killer. What’s one more karmic kick in the pants? 

“Hello, boys,” he greets. “What can I get you?” He sets out the square napkins that nobody ever uses. Strangers 1, 2, and 3 order beers. Guinness, Sam Adams, and Devil’s Backbone respectively. 

Castiel does not order. Castiel stares at him. Crowley swallows back a grimace and distracts himself with pouring.

The shift from office life to the bar business has been an odd, trying journey. But Crowley finds the repetition of the job soothing. Bartending comes naturally to him. Perfect foam head on every draft. 

He sets the beers in front of the gents and takes their card to open a tab. Here for the game, surely. They take their drinks and laugh their way down the bar.

Castiel lingers. “Crowley,” he says. Crowley can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just surprised. 

Crowley nods. “What can I get you?” 

“You work here?” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “No,” he mutters. “I’m standing here for the fun of it. What’ll you have, Castiel?” 

‘Castiel.’ Not ‘Cas.’ Only polite.

Castiel opens his mouth and closes it again. Confusion sits in the crease between his brows. 

Crowley swallows a deeper cringe. “Still a stout man?” he asks. 

“Uh, yes.” Castiel is still staring. “You...work in a bar now?”

Crowley ignores the question. “We have an excellent oatmeal stout by the bottle,” he suggests. “Just got it in. Might be up your alley.” If Crowley still knows Castiel's tastes. A big ‘if.’ It’s been years, after all. 

It has been years, hasn’t it? Crowley feels an awful pang in his chest. 

“Fine,” Castiel says. He waves away the selection as if he doesn’t want to order. As if he doesn’t want to be in this bar at all. 

Crowley relates. He plucks a bottle from the fridge below the bar; selects one from the back so it’s cold as can be. Gods help him, he’s being sentimental already. Crowley pops the top off and sets the bottle on yet another pointless little napkin. Two seconds, and the thing is already soaked through with condensation.

“You on your friends’ tab?” he asks. Are those other gents Castiel's friends? Who knows? One may be Castiel’s latest fling. It's no concern of Crowley’s. None whatsoever.

He glances at Castiel's hands when he reaches for his drink. No ring.

“What happened to your practice?” Castiel asks, instead of answering. 

Crowley chuckles. Heaven or Hell help him, Castiel is hitting all the sore points at once. “I’m out of law,” he says. “Bought this place with a buddy of mine. Robert Singer, you remember him?” 

Castiel frowns. “You loved the firm, Crowley.” 

Yes. Crowley has loved many things. The problem is, they rarely love him as much in return. If Crowley were feeling peckish, he would say this. Temporary satisfaction, but it would hurt Castiel. Wouldn’t that be worth it, just for a moment? 

“I love this now,” Crowley offers instead. He forces a smile. “How about you? Still at the gym?” It’s how they met; that stupid gym. Turned Crowley off fitness for good. 

This aversion hasn't helped the padding around Crowley's middle. The slouch of a chest that was once firm. Or his daily pain; his back, his knees.

His damned mother nags constantly. If he insists on living his life as a bachelor, he might as well take care of himself, she says. “Why don’t you find another Castiel, Fergus? You looked so _good_ when you were with Castiel.” Insufferable twat.

No matter. Crowley is quite good at issue-bottling after all these years.

Castiel takes an anxious sip of his beer. "Um, yes. Still training, not at the same gym." He glances down the bar at the men he came in with. "We work together. The gym isn't far from here. Toned, on 5th and Union?”

“I’ve seen it,” Crowley says. He has. Never once thought of venturing inside, even before he knew Castiel worked there. He makes a mental note to avoid that block from here on out. “You look good,” Crowley mumbles, as an afterthought. Castiel does. Infuriatingly good.

Castiel smiles, and the pain returns to Crowley’s chest. “You do too, Crowley,” he says. “You…seem happy.” 

“Hated the bloody suits,” Crowley grumbles as a cover. He wipes down the bar. It's already dry, but it gives Crowley an excuse to break eye contact.

“Yes,” Castiel replies, chuckling. “But they worked for you.” 

“They did,” Crowley agrees. Good memories in those suits. Many of those memories involve Crowley being stripped from them piece by piece. A peel of buttons so slow that Crowley begged Cas for more. Begged! Unheard of before or since. 

“I should, um…” Castiel looks down the bar towards his co-workers again. Just like this, the moment is over. After all, they are just patron and server now. Ghosts in a past cluttered by skeletons.

Crowley nods. “Of course. Enjoy.” He kneels to attend to the ice beneath the bar. It doesn't need changing, but it's a welcome excuse to end this awkward reunion. A sigh tells him that Castiel is grateful. 

Castiel has already fled when Crowley glances upward. He has rejoined his friends; the people currently in his life. Unlike Crowley, long since deleted. 

Crowley rests his forehead on the ice chest. What a mess. 

*** 

It gets crowded, mercifully. 

Some would not welcome the break-neck speed of a bar at peak hours. But Crowley operates best without time to think. Busy nights remind him why he relishes this new career. What freedom, to work in a physical environment! To restock the kegs and entertain the crowd. Grin and quip. Make strangers smile. 

The gym group sends representatives for refills. These representatives, Crowley notes, are never Castiel. Better this way. Crowley dives into his work without interruption. 

As the night progresses, he gets help behind the bar. Cecily is good. She jumps right into the fray. 

Cecily makes Crowley smile like few others can. She tries to bear-hug him from behind with her noodle arms. Roughs up his hair before attending to the other side of the bar. Cecily bounces with every step. She has a winning smile and a gleam in her eyes. Crowley is fond of her, dearly. If only he preferred the female persuasion. If only she did not fancy long-haired punks in too much flannel. 

Still, he enjoys their friendly flirtation. On this night, it is an especially welcome distraction.

The hours tick by. 

When the game ends, the crowd shrinks to a more comfortable buzz. Castiel's group is among the patrons to depart. The credit card holder is the blonde of Castiel’s brood. Balthazar, odd name. He pays for the lot. Lost a bet, maybe. 

Castiel is nowhere to be seen. Crowley allows himself a smile as he rings up their tab. Just as well. The past is the past for a reason. 

“Thank you, sir. Hope to see you again soon.” He places the card and receipts on the bar. 

Crowley leaves him to it and heads to the back room. Ice is low again. 

Cecily is on her way out when he arrives. “Love a man in a lather.” She scritches his back as she passes. 

Crowley chuckles and lifts a fresh ice bag from the freezer. When the door swings back open, he rolls his eyes. “I'm about done with this air mess, Cecily,” he grouses. “I called those useless repairmen again today-”

“Crowley.” 

Startled, Crowley drops the ice bag. It's still closed, thankfully, but the crash of ice hitting tile still echoes. 

"Bloody hell!" Crowley glares at Castiel. Castiel glares back. 

They are at a standstill when the door swings open. Cecily pokes her concerned head in. "You ok, boss? I heard- Oh.“ She stares at Castiel. Castiel does not look at her.

“You’re ok,” Cecily decides. With a wink at Crowley, she departs.

"You've expanded your tastes then?" Castiel's voice carries the most remarkable venom.

Crowley frowns. "What are you talking about?" Castiel does not answer, he just glowers. 

Crowley should demand to know what he's on about. But it's been a long shift, made longer by this disaster. Crowley is tired and so very sore. His back again, always his damned back.

Crowley rubs the ache from the nape of his neck. “Heading out?” he asks, trying to save face. “Blasted air conditioning - what’s this?” He frowns at the card thrust against his chest. The bar’s business card? 

He flips it over to the white side. It is marked in black ink; a phone number.

“I want you to call me,” Castiel says. A hint of doubt pulls at his mouth. “But I’ll understand if you don’t.” Then, he leaves.

He leaves! Without another word! Moron! 

Crowley shakes his head, perplexed, but he pockets the card. A smile creeps to his lips as he collects the dropped ice bag.

Maybe it hasn’t been so long after all. The Castiel Crowley knew is still in there somewhere. Beautifully awkward Castiel. 

Cecily is waiting outside the room when Crowley emerges. “Details,” she prods, trailing him to the bar.

“No.” Crowley pours the ice into its waiting chest. It hits the bottom with a clank. 

“Yes,” Cecily counters, leaning back on the bar. “Come on, I tell you everything-”

“You tell me on your own,” Crowley points out. “I don’t ask.” 

Cecily scowls. “You _listen_!”

Irrelevant. But Crowley can never deny her for long. He blows out a breath. “We…used to…” On second thought, no. He isn't doing this. Crowley snorts and grabs a towel, scrubbing wet circles from the bar. 

“He gave you his number, didn’t he?” 

“No.” 

“Didn’t he?” Cecily repeats.

“No.” 

“He did, didn’t he?” 

“Yes!” Crowley hisses, rubbing an already clean spot on the counter.

Cecily sprouts the most glorious grin. “You devil,” she croons. “He's hot.” 

Crowley groans and crumples the empty ice bag.

Cecily follows him to the back room. “He’s so hot,” she enthuses, “and he _wants_ you.” 

“You're driving me batty, you know that?” 

“You deserve it, boss.” Crowley frowns and glances over his shoulder. Cecily leans in the doorway, smiling. “Really.” 

“Fine, yes. Go on.” Crowley waves her away. She leaves, but only after bestowing her blessing with a wink. 

Finally alone, Crowley grabs a mop and scrubs the wet patch from the floor, a smudge left behind by the fallen ice bag. 

When the job is done, Crowley allows himself a moment to rest against his mop handle. He pulls the card out and drinks in the phone number scribbled hastily on the back. This can't end well. Can it?

He flips the card in his hand. Maybe he shouldn't call. Maybe he should know better.

With a sigh, Crowley pockets the card again. There's no point. He already knows what he's going to do. And gods, he needs to stop smiling.

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) :)


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